Heir of Ashes (The Roxanne Fosch Files #1)

Chapter 6

I tried to sit and strategize an escape plan, but I found myself pacing. My mind was a whirlwind of chaotic thoughts, each one more disjointed than the other. What now? What to do? What could this infamous black sorcerer want from me? Where were the missing pieces?

I approached the door Remo had left through and examined it carefully. I wanted to test his theory but was afraid to. But what if he was lying?

I strode back to the elevator shaft and inspected the door. Again, it had nothing but a keyhole. The only difference between this one and the one downstairs was the color. While this one was white, the one below was metallic gray. I tried sliding open the door, and to my surprise, it gave a crack! I renewed my attempt, adrenaline pumping through me.

I pushed and pushed, the thick beige carpet providing excellent traction. And then I was staring at a yawning, dark hole. The car wasn’t there.

I looked down. As far as I could see, there was nothing but a normal-looking cable. There weren’t even doors that opened on the other floors below—just smooth, gray cement walls all the way down.

It was a one-way elevator. How far down? I looked around for something to throw and decided on a whiskey bottle. I dropped the flask and waited. An eternity later came the tinkling sound of breaking glass.

Very far down then. After giving it one last considering look, I returned to the supposedly warded door and examined it.

I waved my hand over the doorknob, and the same energy buzzing off Remo vibrated off the door. I touched it with my fingertips and nothing happened. There was no heat either. I closed my hand firmly over the knob and concentrated. After a beat or two, that buzzing energy became a soft vibration, starting where the knob touched my skin and spreading up my arm like a slimy, icy creature. It moved from limb to limb until my whole body was vibrating with it. But that was all the reaction I got.

Thrilled and hopeful, my heart kicking with unspent adrenaline, I pulled open the door a crack. Still nothing, just the buzzing energy. Inch by inch, I moved until the door was gaping wide, my concentration tight on the vibrating energy. I waited a full minute, aware of the time ticking away but unwilling to rush something I didn’t understand.

Beyond the door, about twenty feet away, stood a bank of elevators. My freedom.

“Hello?” I called.

No one answered.

“Hello!”

Still no answer.

“Help me!”

I let go of the door, the faint buzzing lingering on my skin a bit longer. I inched my right hand closer to the threshold, again concentrating my attention on that buzzing static, ready to pull back if it hiccupped. I recalled all the spells and stuff the PSS had used that worked on every other preternatural but had no effect whatsoever on me, like the blocking bracelet. Could this ward be the same? I inched closer and reached the frame, the threshold, and the buzzing … stopped.

I froze, not breathing, not even blinking. But nothing happened. There were no infernal flames, no intense heat, no nothing to reduce me to cinders. Pride and triumph flared inside me. I was about to take a step out the door when the buzzing returned and a brilliant light pattern flashed once, twice. There was a phantom tug on my hand right before I was flung back forcefully. It was like being hit by a giant fist; so potent was the shove that I skidded a few inches off the floor. I hit the compact glass bar with a bone-jarring thud, teeth clacking, before I slid to the floor in a shower of glass, liquid, and noise. A lot of noise.

Stars danced in my vision, threatening to close in. Everything hurt. My back, my head, my legs, my ribs, my arms. But the worst was the searing heat on my right hand. When I managed to focus my watering eyes on it, my stomach contents curdled. Blisters covered the whole surface, and, oh God, some parts were charred black.

I was not a crier. The PSS taught me how futile the sentiment was, but on that horrible night in the penthouse of the MGM, I sobbed like a baby. But I didn’t let myself wallow in self-pity. Not for long anyway. After some deserved tears, I dried my face on the sleeve of my jacket and forced myself to examine the damage closely. The whole hand, palm and back, was either covered in blisters or charred. There wasn’t an inch of healthy skin. My wrist, however, was smooth and healthy.

My jacket was in perfect shape. No burn spots or smoke marred the cloth. My left hand, like my right wrist, looked smooth and blister-free. In fact, the only part of my body burning was the hand that had had physical contact with the threshold. Of course, my body was screaming from all the injustices it had been enduring lately. Injustices that I was beginning to suspect were all connected to Remo Drammen.

I had to get the hell out of there, or pain would be the least of my worries. First things first, my inner voice told me. Focus. There should be ice in the bar. I spotted what could be a freezer and braced to get up, cursing when a piece of broken glass cut the palm of my left hand.

“There goes smooth,” I murmured, watching the blood well up. With a calm I didn’t feel, I looked around at the mess and grabbed a vodka bottle that was still intact, and studied it for a moment, my blood staining the glass red. With a loud, raging roar, I threw the bottle at the opposite wall. It exploded in a loud shower of glass, liquor, and the strong scent of alcohol. Some of the glass fell through the threshold to the other side. I sighed, filled with spite at the chaos that littered the once-pristine room.

Fifteen minutes later, I slammed the door shut with a bang. No one had bothered to investigate all the noise. The makeshift ice bandage around my burning hand leaked water all over the place. The mess I was making gave me some childish satisfaction, but it was of no help in the long run.

I moved to the window and watched as night turned into day. I couldn’t feel any of the buzzing energy at the window, but Remo Drammen had ensured I wouldn’t be going out that way simply by choosing the topmost floors. I realized there was nothing I could do but wait and see.

***

After I’d exerted enough of the restless energy coursing through me by pacing, I sat to think. I had combed through the entire penthouse—a state of art and luxury—and aside from cutting a pillowcase to ribbons and bandaging my hand, found nothing to use to my advantage. Shifting my hand to talons only caused excruciating pain. The blisters didn’t heal like the gash on the palm of my left hand did.

There wasn’t even a basic first-aid kit anywhere. In fact, the entire place felt unoccupied. There was one lonely suit—white—hanging in the closet, still carrying the designer tag. Nothing else. Nothing in the bathroom but complimentary toiletries. Nothing personal.

***

I jolted awake on the sofa, fully awake and alert at the sound of soft tapping on glass. How could I have fallen asleep? Stupid.

I searched for the source, but there was nothing. Outside, morning was in full swing. All three doors were open, and when the tapping came again, I followed the sound to the master bedroom, where the tapping was coming from behind the thick drapes.

Tap, tap, tap.

I hesitated. Was Remo Drammen behind the curtain? A hellhound? Or maybe a demon, or something just as nasty?

Tap, tap, tap.

Ah, but wasn’t I the curious cat? I approached the window cautiously, grabbed the curtain, and yanked, belatedly realizing I should have grabbed something to use as a makeshift weapon. A gasp escaped my lips when I saw the figure plastered to the window.

“My God.” I hurried forward and fumbled with the latches on the window. How? Logan’s lips were moving, but I couldn’t hear him. He tapped on the glass with his fingernails again to get my attention and mouthed for me to move back. When I did, I saw the rope he was dangling from. I retreated until the back of my knees hit the edge of the bed.

Logan kicked the window with one sturdy boot, breaking the glass. Warm air rushed in, along with the sound of distant traffic. Then he kicked it again and again, widening the gap until no jagged edges remained and it was wide enough for him to get in. He dropped lightly to the floor, smashing glass under his boots, giving a cursory look around, sniffing and listening. Once he deemed the room safe enough, he focused his gray eyes on me. He took in my bloodstained, rumpled clothes before fixing his intense gaze on my bandaged hand.

“You alright?”

I nodded, and after one more look around, he beckoned me forward. “We have to go now. Before someone comes to check on you.”

“Why? Why are you helping me?”

There was a small hesitation before he said, “Let’s get out of here first. We’ll talk once we get somewhere safer.”

To my horror, I discovered there was no rope for me—not that I knew how to climb—just a belt-like contraption hooked to a similar one around Logan’s waist. He hooked me to him, instructed me to hold on tight, and gave me a devilish smile.

“Whatever happens, don’t look down,” he said and pushed us off the window.

I admit, a tiny squeal escaped my lips at the first instance of feeling airborne. And, of course, when I looked down at the miniature life below … let’s just say it wasn’t the brightest moment of my life.

Logan began pulling us upward. Unable to help myself, I wrapped my arms around his neck in a death grip and shut my eyes tightly. For the first time in a long time, I prayed. I prayed that the rope was strong enough for both our weights. I prayed that Remo didn’t return at that moment. I prayed that no one down on the street spotted us and reported it to the security team inside.

By the time Logan tumbled us onto the roof, he was breathing hard, his exhalations harsh and labored. “I guess I need more exercise,” he panted.

No longer in immediate danger of falling to my death, I became acutely aware of our proximity, and was glad he couldn’t see me blushing.

“You can let go now,” he choked out, and my eyes flew open.

I released the grip around his neck and tried to back away, but we were still hooked together.

He chuckled at the mortification that crossed my face and just as efficiently as before, unhooked us from each other and then himself from the rope and harness. It was windy up here, the gusts tossing his dark brown hair all around, revealing reddish streaks in between. I was glad he had found me again. No matter his motive, between him and Remo, I’d choose him. A million times over. He looked at me sideways, no doubt sensing my gaze on him.

“We should go. If someone realizes you’re gone before we clear the building, we’ll never get out of here,” he said, undoing the last loop and throwing the rope aside.

I didn’t argue. I wanted to get away from there and put a lot of distance between me and Remo Drammen, and whatever business he wanted me for.

***

It didn’t surprise me to discover Logan had found his car. In a way, I knew he would. And although I was relieved he’d found me too, my curiosity was piqued.

“How did you know where to find me?” I asked.

“The internet.”

I stared at him for a moment, then comprehension dawned. “What? I’m on Facebook ?”

“That’s not where I saw you, but I’m sure you’re on there too,” he said, a mischievous smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Well?” I prompted when he didn’t elaborate.

“You’re all over TikTok .” He gave me a sideways glance, then focused back on the road. “Considering who you clocked, you’re probably breaking news,” he chuckled. “Maybe even Entertainment Tonight .”

I just stared at him blankly.

He went on, “You know, you practically pulverized the bones and cartilage in his nose? Last I checked, he was still in surgery. I say he got lucky. Did you know you can kill someone with only a nose punch? You gotta angle the hook.” He demonstrated with an upward motion with his right hand, the heel of his palm tilting forward. “So when you punch, you send broken bones to the brain.” He gave me a brief glance, still smiling, and caught my blank stare. “You have no idea who you punched, do you?”

I shook my head.

“His name is P.J. Tyler. He’s Hollywood’s new hotshot. Women, media, agents, fans.” He fluttered his fingers over the steering wheel. “They all flock to him wherever he goes. That’s probably how they caught the whole thing on camera. Someone was already recording when he approached you.”

He chuckled again, no doubt remembering the scene. “Don’t fret about it. He’ll live, and I’m sure he deserved it. Besides, some representative of MGM’s PR department already spun a tale about your arrest. And the fact that Mr. Drammen’s lackeys escorted you away in handcuffs gave the speech some credibility.” He waved his arm in dismissal and fell silent.

God, I hadn’t even considered charges being pressed. Or that the punch had caused so much damage. But again, I had thought it was one of the security dudes who had caught me, not an ordinary casino guest. At the time, I didn’t consider how much damage a punch from me would cause, just that I was caught and had to get free. Of all the guests at the casino, I had to punch the most illustrious, the most prominent, the one most watched.

And now what? Was I, on top of everything else, a fugitive of the law? A Hollywood hotshot. I swallowed hard, closed my eyes, and leaned my head back. Logan’s hand fell over my knee and squeezed. “Hey, don’t worry about it.”

I nodded, not bothering to open my eyes. I couldn’t shake the feeling that my life was spiraling out of control, and that all I could do was brace for it.

We left Las Vegas without another word. Logan kept a close watch on the rearview mirror, clearly expecting trouble. He didn’t mention me leaving him at the hotel, and I didn’t apologize. Like I said, he had an agenda, and I wanted no part in it. Sure, he had helped me a few times, and maybe I wished him no harm, but I was not going to be his next paycheck, no matter what—or who—he crossed for me.

“Where do you want to go?” he asked, breaking the quiet.

“Excuse me?”

He looked at me, his face set in a grim expression. “I imagine if I take you to whatever destination you have in mind, you won’t be so hell bent on ditching me whenever. Plus, there’s a chance once you scratch off whatever chore you have on your list, I’ll have a better chance of keeping you around.”

“Whatever gave you that idea?”

He shrugged, just a lift of his right shoulder. “I want something from you. In return, I’ll reward you handsomely for your troubles. And I’ll personally deliver you safely to wherever you want to go.”

I was silent for a moment, wondering what he could possibly want from someone like me. What was with these people? First Remo Drammen, now him?

When my silence stretched too long, he gave me a cursory look. “You know, I thought after all these … incidents,” he said with a sardonic grin, “you should’ve guessed I don’t work for the Society.”

Yeah, I’d figured as much. I played along. “You don’t?”

“No.”

“Then who do you work for?”

“No one.”

“Then why …” I gestured with my hand, making a wide motion to encompass everything that had happened.

“I want something from you.”

“And that is?” I prompted when he didn’t elaborate.

He stared straight ahead at the road, clearly choosing his words. “The Society kidnapped a friend of mine a couple of weeks ago. It is my understanding that you escaped the place, and that you are familiar with the grounds and security system. I will deliver you safely to wherever you want to go in exchange for your help getting my friend back—”

“No.” No way was I going back to that place. Not willingly. I shuddered at the idea.

He slowed and pulled over, turning to give me his full attention. I wondered if it also served to emphasize that if I wasn’t helping, then there was no need for me to go on with him. I looked around at the endless road. Even if he left me stranded in the middle of nowhere, he wouldn’t be able to sway me. I set my chin and stared back at him.

“No?”

“No.”

“You don’t even know what I’m asking you to do or how much I’m willing to pay for your help.” At the shake of my head, he trailed off, narrowing his eyes at me. “I don’t think you understand the gravity of your situation. The Society is so afraid of you that they have been sending mercenaries after you left and right. Rumor has it you’ve stolen some dangerous information from their archives, information that could be used to unbalance the power seat of the preternatural hierarchy.” He paused for effect. “If that rumor spreads further to higher ears, the Society will be the least of your troubles.”

I’ll be damned. I hadn’t seen that coming. But thief status aside, no way in hell was I going back to the PSS to help someone’s friend, not even for the balance of the entire world.

“If you help me,” Logan pushed, no doubt reading my silence as uncertainty. “I can get you off everyone’s radar. Plus, I guarantee to get you out of there safely.”

I shook my head again. “It doesn’t matter. My answer is no.” After a second, I added, “If it were something else, maybe I could help you. But this … going back there … I can’t.”

He stared at me for a long time, his gray eyes flat, almost cold. I stared back, not letting him intimidate me an inch. Was he going to tell me to get out now and finish my journey on my own? If he thought that making me walk the rest of the way to civilization was going to bend me, he was sorely wrong.

“Look, I’m sorry about your friend, but there’s nothing in this world you could offer me that would convince me to go back there.”

“You do realize,” he began slowly, “that I’m not the only one besides the Society capable of tracking you down? I can keep those people away, help you disappear after we’re done rescuing my friend.”

It would have been wonderful to have someone protecting me, sharing my burden for once. The thought that he’d help me disappear and find a place where I could pursue my life, not afraid every time I turned a corner was alluring. If it had been anything else he was asking, I’d have jumped at the offer.

“Yeah, I figured it out.”

“They won’t stop coming after you. I can help you vanish completely from their radar, arrange for a different ID, a job, a home somewhere no one would be able to find you.”

My anger bubbled at his careless words. “Look, I’m not going back to the PSS even if they hire every single assassin in the country to go after me. I’d rather be free and fighting for my life than be stuck in a cage and helpless.”

He stared at me for a long time, then pursed his lips and looked away. I could tell he hadn’t expected me to resist his offer. Well, he was in for a rude awakening because there was nothing he could offer me, nothing in the whole world that would entice me enough to make me return to the PSS of my own free will.

I turned my head and watched the desert, waiting for Logan to either tell me to get out or start driving.

When he spoke again, his gray eyes had darkened with determination. “Very well, don’t come with me. How well can you describe the Society’s grounds? Can you draw a map of the place?”

“I can do that. I was there for a while.” I rubbed the palms of my hands on my pants. “I can give you the smallest detail—down to a crack in a tile, a chipped corner’s edge. I can even tell you the locations of restricted areas, some of which I know what are used for.”

He inclined his head in agreement, but I could tell he was far from satisfied by settling for less. “Then draw me a map. What about surveillance?”

“There are cameras and sensors everywhere, along with guards like the ones at the motel.” I forced my fidgety hand to stay still. I knew with certainty that if Logan tried to rescue his friend, he’d never be able to leave—provided he wasn’t killed during the attempt.

“Draw me the map and include as many details as you can remember. Can you do that?” At my nod of agreement, he started the car and began driving again. “How did you escape?” he asked a long time later.

I turned from the endless desert outside to look at him. “I behaved,” I said cryptically.

If I hadn’t, they would never have agreed to that last session. In exchange for driving lessons, I had to consent and cooperate with Dr. Maxwell and any new horrible experiments, sacrificing a piece of myself. If it was something they deemed worthy, I got a session. If not, just a chaperoned afternoon outside with the Elite guards.

I didn’t tell Logan that, or how I had been taking lessons for a long time before the opportunity arose. How a whole contingent of the PSS’s Elite Team had followed me around. In the end, I had killed two guards, and left two more, along with Dr. Maxwell, unconscious in the woods, hit with their own brand of tranquilizers. I’d dumped both escort vehicles into the Sound, as well as all their communication devices, to give myself a head start.

Logan gave me a quizzical look. “You behaved; that’s it?”

“Yeah.”

Sometimes, I would lie awake at night and think back on that day, wondering if someone had helped me escape. Not that it had been easy, mind you; just that some crucial elements should never have happened. Throughout my captivity, there had been a sympathetic guard or two who had covertly helped me—any interference on their part had to come indirectly, so if anything went wrong, the blame would fall on me.

“Where do you want to go?” Logan asked.

“Sacramento.”

While pacing in Remo Drammen’s penthouse, I had come to the conclusion that if I wanted answers to my questions, I had to stop meandering in an aimless loop and find out who, or what, I really was. Once I got that puzzle piece fitted, I’d have a clearer view of what awaited me ahead. Or that was what I was hoping for. To do that, I needed to find the only person who could provide me with the answers.

“What’s in Sacramento?” Logan asked, his curiosity evident.

“My mother.”